


Acts One, Two and Three

by otakuashels



Series: The Tale of An Empire [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, English Civil War, Hetalia, Historical Hetalia, History, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otakuashels/pseuds/otakuashels
Summary: "Apologies upfront Matthew this may become rather graphic. But this is the only way I can even begin to think about how to describe civil war to a colony or nation that has never experienced it. Have you ever been put on the rack? It sounds terribly painful. Being torn limb from limb by opposing forces. No matter how hard you cry, how many bones break and tendons snap. The pulling never stops until that final crack and then your dead. Or at least you hope so. Otherwise, your left to die, suffocating in your body. "





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This did not have space to be put in Chapter 11 of We Hold These Truths.  
> This fic will be England telling Matthew of the First English Civil War, which is briefly mentioned in WHTT.  
> 

“Yes, all in our favour.” England rolled the drink around in his mug. “However, I just cannot seem to shake the feeling that something is off. That I am missing something. I mean half this blasted rebellion has been that way. They technically are still my colonists, so not only am I so busy taking care of the Loyalists from America's damn traitors, but now I’ve got Hessians in my troops. Then, on top of everything else, these savages are in my troops technically all belonging to me.” He swallowed thickly before continuing, “It’s a lot to process all at once. Civil wars never do sit well with a nation's stomach.” He grinned weakly. “Never have one Matthew. They are absolute rubbish, and neither women nor drink can take the taste from your mouth thoroughly.” he sighed before adding on, “Especially not women. Not good. Understood.” He raised a finger in admonishment.

“Of course, Mr. England,” Matthew murmured. England could see it in Canada’s face, he wasn’t quite taking him seriously. Heavens, England thought, What could he have been up to over here by himself with France’s influence so young? I suppose he was populated by whores at first... Canada was staring at him, so he broke off the train of thought and tried to turn back to the matter at hand. Stirring the stew half-heartedly he lifted a scoop to his mouth to please Canada who was watching him. Something felt off, something was not going well.

"Apologies upfront Matthew this may become rather graphic. But this is the only way I can even begin to think about how to describe civil war to a colony or nation that has never experienced it. Have you ever been put on the rack? It sounds terribly painful. Being torn limb from limb by opposing forces. No matter how hard you cry, how many bones break and tendons snap.” He watched as Matthew's face paled. “The pulling never stops until that final crack, and then you're dead. Or at least you hope so. Otherwise, you're left to die, suffocating in your body fluids and blood.”

 

"That's terrible!"

"You wanted to know what a civil war was like for a nation my dear colony. And that is the best description I can give of one. Now grab a new cuppa because this is going to take the rest of the night to tell this story."

SCENE ESTABLISHMENT  
Setting:  
September 09, 1642  
London, England  
Queen Henrietta Maria’s bedroom 

 

“I am gonna kill him. Henrietta I am going to kill Charles! Kick him down the steps! Make a deal with the faeries to smother him with a pillow in his sleep! I don’t know put a hornet's nest beneath throne! Something” England threw his hands up in the air as he stormed into Henrietta's sitting room, amusing the queen and startling her ladies in waiting. “Out Ladies! Please!” he ordered the women. Henrietta gave a wave of her hand and in a rustle of skirts poofing with curtseys they scattered. 

“Good morning Arthur” the chilly September morning found Henrietta and her ladies in waiting reading their books before a chatty fireplace in her sitting rooms. Henrietta and her ladies sat like pretty little-painted portraits adorned in the latest of fashions, as no self-loving French women would find herself behind the times, Henrietta chided. Henrietta had just returned from Holland where she had been working on importing money and other war assets and would be returning to the country shortly. From puffy virago sleeves to incandescent pastel colored silks and gowns fitted to one's natural waist adorned the Queen and her women. The fit perfectly well amongst the satin covered sitting furniture with intricately carved wooden stands. Henrietta favored the masque Tempe Restored of the court but wore much simpler styles in her private settings.

“What was he thinking! Raising his standard in Nottingham like that! So quickly! It’s a bad omen! It’s bad luck I tell you! There is still active Royalist resistance from the Scots! It is not over yet!” England seethed, dropping onto one of the ladies stools at the Queen’s feet. England had held his temper as he strode through the corridors but when he reached the Queen’s private quarters, he had lost all care for decorum. “Why are you smiling at me like that!” he scowled up at his French-born Queen.

“Because you came here in such a huff. Usually so stiff and now acting so much more like the age you look” Henrietta laughed. 

“I am not in a huff” England protested, only causing the women to laugh again. Henrietta Maria of France. To think that England would ever find himself that besotted by a woman born from that frog's country was beyond him. When he figured out that his King, Charles I was marrying woman from France out of proxy England had been mortified. The couple hadn’t been married in person until a month later, June of 1625. It was supposed to have settled everything, yet it seemed to only get worth. Charles was Anglican, and Henrietta was Catholic so the Queen of England could not be crowned. London had been beside itself. Henrietta had come sweeping in with French taste and brunette curls void of a crown atop them. Her French couture threatened to empty England of all its gold and Charles dismissed it from the courts. Never would England forget the headaches as the couple bickered back and forth over the subject. Then there was the Duke of Buckingham George Villiers. Those two hated one another like the hounds and cats of the London streets. George while he was alive, thank goodness for that assassination, was the King’s favorite. In the court and in the privacy of the bedroom, one of Charles gentleman of the bedroom at the time.

When he had finally been assassinated, Henrietta and Charles immediately took a liking to each other. The bickering between the two that had been driving England to drink. In four years the pair had become the closest of friends and the most intertwined of lovers. Charles love letters were always addressed “Dear Heart,” it was terribly romantic, yet England would never admit to the pang of jealously that lit his heart when Henrietta gushed the notes to him. "And dear Heart, thou canst not but be confident that there is no danger which I will not hazzard, or pains that I will not undergo, to enjoy the happiness of thy company" she had sung, twirling about her room in nothing but her nightgown one morning. It had been a relief to see things had finally come to a happy conclusion, well a climax at least.

“Are you honestly surprised that Charles pulled such a stunt Arthur dear? So surprised that you just shouted regicide in front of all my ladies in waiting” brow raised in amusement as she closed the book she had been reading.

“It's not regicide for a nation to shout that” England muttered. “And I was not shocked, more upset by the fact that Charles did that, in front of Lil Charlie no less! What kind of example does that set for his heir!” he sighed referring to Henrietta and Charles first son Charles II. 

"Can a nation get away with regicide? I must check my fathers' books." A deep voice rumbled from the doorway. 

"Eavesdropping is a disgusting habit, I thought I taught you better." England sniffed, glaring over his shoulder at the King in the door. Charles leaned against the doorframe, a grin on his features. He had removed his wig and dressed down, it seemed he had no plans to hold court for the remaining daylight hours.

"You listen in all the time" Charles protested, striding into the room to press a kiss to Henrietta's face "Maria my love you look as pretty as a rose this morning."

"It's not eavesdropping when I am the country, I am everything one could argue " England replied flatly as Henrietta replied with her own endearments. He watched Charles sit on the floor beside his wife.

"Which is why I believe I get a free chance now and then. I know you aren't happy with how I handled things in Scotland."

"I haven't agreed with anything you have done in Scotland since the 1637 Charles! I warned you that introducing the Anglican book of Prayer so Brashly would not end well! Alistair was furious, and he stormed in here to stop us! That was why the riot broke out in Edinburgh. You had us thrust into the Bishop wars like a child thrust into the world from labor. Screaming and confused! We accepted the Pacification of Berwick, and that did not last! Now a mere two years ago we had to fight once more and had to surrender! And then with the Long Parliament-"

"Yes the sodding bastards of the Long Parliment" Charles snapped, ignoring Henrietta's look of disapproval. "And you think Scotland should do as he pleases?"

"No!" England shook his head. Alistair belonged to his crown, he was more than well aware of that. But the Scotsman was becoming increasingly difficult to handle, on top the fact that Seamas still had not forgiven him for the plantations, it was becoming near unbearable to deal with it all. Especially when he had a yearning to go back to the new world and look after his colony, America. "But you must know the people are not pleased. They are furious that their imposition to with the draining of the Fens was looked over, they seem to think you have no care for their public concerns! And you must have heard the rumors about-"

"Then you understand that they belong to me and they shall obey." Charles frowned and England sighed. 

"Of course Charles I just think we should be more careful. A lot is going on at the moment. Between stuff here in this part of the world and our colony across the sea. " England watched as the Kings face turned red with anger. Charles was known to have bouts of insanity, and they often came about with little to no provoking. 

"I am feeling rather peckish!" Henrietta cut in suddenly, skirts fluttering as she all but leaped to her feet. "Charles, Arthur shouldn't supper be soon! I do hope so! How about we dine in private here! Extra sweets please!" the Queen all but crooned as she clasped Charles' hand. It was like all the anger deflated out of the middle aged man. England heaved a silent sigh of relief. That could have been ugly. 

"Of course dear, whatever you please." the King smiled and called out loudly for a guard at the door to summon a servant. There was so much more that needed to be discussed. But it did not seem like today was a safe day to venture into such political territory. Between the Royalists, the Parliamentarians and the people's unhappiness it was slowly spiraling into chaos. Despite disagreements and shrugs of shoulders England had been at war since January. Watching his regents flirt with one another a sense of unease upset his stomach, Charles was in for a wake-up call, and he hoped the man could handle it.


	2. Act One Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time soloing, historical Hetalia so let me know what you think so far!  
> I have a tendency to go more political and drama-feel-relationship then battles in my writing (if you have read the collisions of world series and have been subjugated to the long winded portions between England and his queens you will recognize that)  
> I am going to give a shot at wars but no promises on them being stomachable XD

***

Three Civil Wars.” Canada interrupted as England stopped for a drink. The young colony looked nauseous. England seized up the boy for a moment. Both Matthew and Alfred had always loved stories, though Matthew had displayed a love of fairytales and romance while Alfred had preferred those of war and of his pirate days. England felt a pang in his heart, if the other brother was here then he could certainly tell all three wars until the candles burned out and the sun was rising. But this was Matthew, the one who had no stomach for war and preferred everyone to be happy, Matthew was the one who took an interest in political dealings rather than the tales of war-torn battlefields. He would have to approach this retelling in a much different manner.

“Yes, three. However, I will only tell you of the First Civil War I experienced as each tale is quite long.”

 

England  
Year: 1642 AD  
29 September

“I can’t hang around all day can I?” England muttered flopping onto his back, pale chest heavy and slick with sweat. Laughter erupted from the man who lay sprawled at his side, previously beneath him.

“Oh but Angleterre’ are you certain? What pressing matters could you be dealing with today.”

“How about you sod off Frog.” he kicked the others calf and ignored the Latin curses that he received in response. Rolling onto his belly, the soft sheets accepted his form, tempting him back to sleep. Blinking furiously he assessed the other in his bed. Long, tan limbs stretched luxuriously as the Frenchman stretched. Hair, Blonde as his own but soft as silk splayed across his pillow in a way that caused envy to rise in England’s chest. No matter what tricks he tried, what fae he prodded he could not seem to get his hair to behave. No matter of brushing and oils could get his hair to calm, to lay flat, and the last time he had grown it out it had been disastrous. He had resembled some wretched street urchin. Swallowing a yawn, he peered at the morning sun that managed to slip through cracks in the lush drapery, casting a soft glow over the room. It made the chambers seem cozy, even almost innocent as if mocking the activities that had just taken place as well as last night. Flexing his toes, he felt the familiar shiver of his thighs, a telltale sign of multiple rounds of vigorous and satisfying shags. He cast another glance at France to see the blue-eyed man watching him with idle curiosity. ‘What is it?”

“Ah, it's nothing. Just thinking on the old days.”

“The old days eh?” England snorted, reaching back to scratch at his left shoulder. “You are kind of old Frog.”

“Blasphemy!” France gasped, clutching at the pillow behind his head in offense. “I am but the embodiment of youth itself! Aphrodite herself coos over my cherub like features! My rosy cheeks, crystal clear eyes, and my happy spirit! How can you say such a thing!”

“I want whatever you have been drinking. Whatever you've been smoking! It's not fair to keep such spirits to yourself!” England rolled his eyes as he rolled his shoulders. Some of the tension that had been holding them stiff seemed to have been worked out of them. “I’m heading out,” he announced rocking to his knees. “And I know you're heading back today so at least I will have the pleasure of an empty bedchamber when I return.” England popped his back, ignoring the sound of protest his bedmate made.

“Come now, Arthur. An empty bed is no comparison to that of a warm body in bed. Especially a talented warm body.” France chuckled, and it took every ounce of control Arthur possessed to not smack the man upside the head. Stepping off the bed England made his way towards his wardrobe. Or attempted to.

“What do you think that you are doing?” he asked quietly as a hand grabbed his wrist. Looking over his shoulder, he glared into sky blue eyes and a crooked smile.

“I know you-you don’t- merde!” Francis swore as England yanked his hand, backhanding him across the face.

“Don’t you dare assume anything about me.” England snapped kneeling on the bed. Reaching forward he grabbed Francis’s arm and flipped the nation over, ignoring his yelp. “You want to fuck, I’ll give you a fuck.” he hissed.

“Angleterre-”

“I didn’t remember telling you that you could talk” he hissed, fingernails digging into pale skin. A grin stretched the corners of his mouth when he was met with shallow breaths. Azure eyes looked up at him with uncertainty. “Do you consent?” he stalled, the question hanging over the pair. “Do you consent?” England repeated as France remained silent, eyes searching his face. The French nation nodded, and it took all of England’s self-control not to shout at the man. He opened his mouth to ask again and was interrupted.

“Yes, I consent.”

 

“Good” he hissed, all hesitation was gone. Fisting his hand in France's hair, he yanked tightly, a grin etching into his features as the other yelped. “Remember who you talk to.” he hissed. “I’m the fucking British Empire!”

***

“Land dispute, land dispute, someone sheep were moved. Lord Treasurership is complaining again. At least the Lord Great Chamberlain has calmed down.” England sighed walking down the hall as he flipped through missives. Curtseys and bows from Lords to servants littered the corridors as he strode down candle light stone hallways, boots muffled by thick carpeting.

“Yes, and my people recruited for your bloody fucking army.” A voice filled with distaste spilled out from one of the rooms he walked past. Stopping his purposeful walk, England turned on his heel to face the other. He was met with curling red hair, green eyes identical to his flashing with annoyance and a scowl.

“Alistair.” England acknowledged coolly. He had been aware that the Scottish nation had come to England, but he didn’t think that the man would actually confront him. More often than not the Scot sulked around and glared at everyone before returning to his kilted folk. Staring at his brother, he watched the anger brewing in his eyes.

“I saw Francis limp his way out of here. A bruise on his face. I’m aware you’re a fucking prick, but at least you have more decorum than that.” Alistair snorted leaning against the door and crossing his arms. Light spilling in from the window of the room cast the older nation in shadow. He and Alistair had never been a picture perfect set of brothers, Alistair and Seamus had bullied him for as long as he could remember but they had never been outright hostile. That had changed over the years with England forcing the Scottish and the Irish into unwilling submission. It left Arthur uncertain of how his older brothers would react now, would they lash out and attack him with brute force, whisper curses and wittle deals of anger with the fae or merely spit at him as they passed.

“He forgot his place. I made sure that he remembered where it was.”Arthur said carefully “Why does it matter what happens in my bed?” He turned his attentions back to his papers. “What are you doing here Alistair? I do not have time for this. I am told that a treaty is being signed today and I really must be present.” he sniffed tugging at his high collar.

“Another treaty that is not going to work.” Scotland snorted pushing off the doorframe to, stroll beside the island nation as Arthur once again resumed a brisk pace down the hall.

“Must you always be so negative?” England frowned. “How do we know that things are going to fail if they haven’t even happened yet?”

“Because it's an idiotic idea.”

“How would you know if it is an idiotic idea or not?”

“Because I know.”

 

“That would make you an idiot then.” England ducked as his older brother moved to swat him. With a laugh, he dodged out of the Scotsman's grasp, quick on his feet. Arthur broke into a run with a snort, Alistair giving chase with a shout. Gasps and yelps from staff members littered the sound of feet pounding against the stone, the two nations barreling down the hall. Papers wrinkled in his hands as Arthur bolted through the castle, elated and breathless as he heard Alistair attempt to catch him. Alistair may be stronger than he, but Arthur was faster, it didn’t take much time, between his speed and knowledge of the castles turns doors he lost the other nation.

Tripping to a stop in front of a massive door Arthur gasped for breath, regaining his control. He had made it to the meeting with time to spare. Straightening his tunic, and futilely attempting to straighten his hair Arthur pushed open the doors, announcing himself. "Well it could be worse" England muttered to himself as he became privy to the scene inside. Ignoring the decorative pieces lining the walls and the long table England eyed the four men with annoyance. They had chosen opposite ends of the table and were glaring at one another over the thick oak. Lord Fairfax for Parliament and Henry Bellasis for the Royalists sat on one side while the two Knights of the Shire who represented Yorkshire in Parliament stood along the wall. The tension in the room was so thick one might compare it to the heavy fog that weighed down a morning harbor. 

“Lord Kirkland” Bellasis got his feet quickly and bowed. It had taken several moments before the other three men did the same. Laying his parchment along atop the table he nodded in acknowledgment. All the people in the room may have been on opposing sides, but they knew better than to argue with him. He, who was the embodiment of the country they loved and slit throats over.

“Gentleman” he repeated as he unrolled a blank scroll and from the pouch at his hip pulled out quill and inkwell. “As previously discussed you have come today to discuss a Treaty of Neutrality.” he looked at the four men. “Is anyone to disagree with this decision.” when silence was his answer he uncorked the ink, dipping the quill into the well slowly, gently. “Alright gentlemen, let us get started.”

“And that should have been the end of it.” England sighed, struggling to keep the bitterness out his voice. It had been five days since the Treaty of Neutrality was signed and now the parliament had already rejected it. England had corned Fairfax that morning in a rage. He challenged the man on his word and integrity as an Englishman. He had been furious.

“Politics are not fun.” the child sitting next to him at the dinner table commented with a wrinkled nose.

“They can be very tricky yes.” England soothed, cutting into his pheasant breast, steam curling into the air. Taking a bite, he watched as Charles II pushed around the vegetables on his plate. “You can’t leave the table till they are gone.” England chided, ignoring the puppy eyes the boy gave him. “Come now I promised your mother when she left for Hague that I would look after you.” he shook his head in amusement as the boy pouted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Some things never changed, despite all the turmoil around them. England was worried that things would only get worse, the political parties on land were split, and now his own Royal Navy was divided. Tarpaulins and captains were furious, shouting out against years of Royal neglect and withheld pay, the part that made it so stressful was that they were not wrong. As a result, most of the Royal Navy had sided with the Parliament, except the officers. Charles and his Royalists were going to find themselves facing trouble as most of the Navy argued against him. The sailors and non-wellborn officers had raised complaints rallying together, and England had found himself in cloak and hat shouting with them. His people were distraught.

“Do I really have to eat all of them?” Charles whined, breaking his negative thoughts.

“Charles, prince's don’t cry it's unbecoming” he smiled leaning back shaking his head. Now only if those big eyes were ocean blue, covered by flaxen bangs far overdue for a cut he would have given in much earlier. “Eat half of them, and then you can have sweets. He laughed as the young boy began shoveling food into his mouth. They had the very same sweet tooth. Charles and little America.

 

October 17  
English Countryside

“Oh, are you getting old Lord Kirkland!” Charles snorted, watching the blonde nation rub at the small of his back as they rode horseback. They were on their way to Warwick Castle and spent the last night sleeping in the open.

“Oh, sod off your Majesty” Arthur shot back with an obscene gesture that caused those nobles around him to chuckle. Charles may be known for his temper and eccentrics, but he had a soft spot for the nation. Who Lord Arthur Kirkland was not common knowledge. But those of great ranking and sworn into parliament were privy to the information and to ever reveal it was punishable by death. As such, nobles were aware of why the seemingly young Lord was able to have such freedom of speech and action with the King and his family it often made the common foot soldier uncomfortable and nervous. Uncertain how to respond, should they defend their King from insult or remain silent? It had caused few problems in the past.

“Well we should be getting to Birmingham soon, then you can rest your weary bones” Charles laughed, motioning for a servant to bring him a drink. England watched the young boy scamper over to please his monarch. With a shake of his head, England shifted in his saddle and stared forward. The October air carried a chill that never stopped trying to creep beneath fur coats to rub skin raw. Rubbing his gloved hands against his cheeks, England watched as his breath unfurled into little puffs before him. Along with the sounds of men's voices and horses, the creak of the carriage added to the din. Charles was supposed to be riding in the carriage, but that morning he had complained about it being boring and had demanded that horse carrying the royal plate and provisions, furniture was already stored atop and inside the carriage. They hoped to secure these items in the castle for safe keeping until the civil war was over. The traveling group continued on in such a manner, the cheerful chatter dwindling as they got closer and closer to the city. It was like the air had become still inside the city. All eyes turned to watch the King’s guard, merchants stopped their shouting, children stopped running, and gossips fell silent.

“Halt! Declare yourself!” the head guard bellowed and the party stopped short. England peered around the group to see a woman sitting in the middle of the road clutching at her leg. “I said declare yourself!” he snapped, pulling his sword from its sheath.

“For goodness sake, it's just a women! Stand down Sir” England ordered and jumped from his horse, throwing his reins to Charles he shrugged off the Kings warning glance and jogged out to the woman. He understood that everyone was tense because of the political battle but to shout at a woman. Out of the corner of his eye, England watched as the guard all clutched at their swords, some also reaching for their guns. He ignored them, out of everyone in the group he felt the safest. Almost like a safety net, he had discussed it with other nations, their people even if they had the intent to attack them they never seemed to be able to complete the action. A look of confusion followed by horror always lit their faces, and they stopped in their tracks. As if subconsciously they recognized they were harming their home. Then they usually freaked out, an expression of regret on their faces. Kneeling down in front of the women England let a groan of annoyance as the woman looked at up him. Just like that, that expression of regret. The woman was a decoy.

“I am sorry.” the brown haired woman whispered, eyes wide with panic. England raised his hands above his head, shouts of confusion erupting around him. Men and women began to yell and scream, and England didn’t bother to look, he knew pitchforks, crude swords and torches were being brought out by the townsfolk of Birmingham.

“Your name?”

“C-Catherine.”

“Well Catherine, what is it that you and your people want?” England asked calmly.

“My father...the men. They want to take what is in the carriage,” she murmured.

“I figured as much.” England sighed before standing and offering a hand to the woman. “Come now, it's unbecoming to sit in the dirt. You are not a child” he helped the woman to her feet before turning to shout “They want what is in the carriage.” his lips pursed as he watched Charles face redden with anger.

“I am your King! Who do you think you are to stop me and demand my things!” he shouted. The royal guard voiced similar opinions, which resulted in a shouting match between the townsfolk and the King's guards. Silently, England agreed with the King. What right did these people have to demand that the King hand over his things? He wanted to yell, shout and pull out his sword. But another part of him sealed his lips. Whispering into his ears the injustice, the poverty and hurt that unfair taxations and war did to the people. They were suffering and resorting to the only chance they may get. Arthur stared at Charles until the King looked his way. A staring contest began with no prompting. England would wait.

“To hell with it!” Charles spat, throwing his hands in the air ‘“let them take what's in the blasted carriage!” he snapped. The guards looked at him in surprise, hesitating. “Are you dumb! I said let them have what is in the fucking carriage! Now, do as I say!” Charles roared, spit flying from his mouth as his anger reached a boiling point. Yanking the reins of his horse hard, he spurred the beast into a gallop, shouting for people to get out of his way.

“Half of you follow the King!” England ordered. “The rest of you too me.” 

“I am sorry.” that whisper came again. Catherine was staring at him, trepidation so stark across her features it made his stomach twist. All he could do was shrug, he couldn’t scream at her about how wrong it was, just as he could not praise her for her actions. He was caught at an impasse. Letting of her hand, he put distance between them as he swung onto his horse. Clenching his hands around his reins, he turned in his saddle to watch the townsfolk pick the carriage over like vultures on a carcass.

“If you are quite done I would like to take the carriage and leave. I do have places to be,” England said flatly. He felt dozens of eyes fall upon him, silence resuming once again. He would let them take the stuff in the carriage, he could come back later, but he had no intent to let them keep the carriage in its entirety. “Come now. On with it.” Arthur commanded, rising in his stirrups to stare at them. Slowly they backed away as if he would attack them without a moment's notice. “Thank you,” he said curtly before giving a pointed look at the carriage driver who scrambled back into his seat. With that, they were off. They were now behind schedule. He was being watched. Peering over his shoulder, he saw the town watching them ride off, confusion apparent on their faces. It melted away erupting in cheers that spoke of success. Turning sharply Arthur focused forward. There was no point in looking back, they weren’t headed that way. He blinked in surprise, that was a saying her had not heard in a long while. It was one thing he believed he had learned from the Nordic people. Savages, but smart to come up with so simple a phrase with so much weight. Ragnar Lothbrok had been a brilliant man.

October 23  
Just outside of London

If things hadn’t been complicated before, they certainly were now. Ever since the carriage incident, Charles's ego was bruised. As a result, they found themselves marching towards London.

“We shall knock Devereux to his knees in front of us. Right where he belongs” Charles said bitterly, and England could only nod. He had been feeling odd since last night. Robert Devereux, the 3rd Earl of Essex. He was the first Captain-General and Chief Commander of the Parliamentarian army. He was a calculative man and was holding London with his armies. However, it was not facing the Earl that bothered him. Late last night Charles had found that his troops were very close to another regiment of the Parliamentarian's. They were stationed atop of Edge Hill. By early October Charles's army was almost finished gathering at Shrewsbury. They had specifically come this way to force Essex into battle. Charles quartered his soldiers in the city of Branbury, knowing that Essex could not help but try and send aid. However, it seemed that Essex's troops made it to Edge Hill. From their spot at the base of the hill. England had woken that morning filled with dread, till now England had denied the fact that his people were in a civil war but now, with their first pitched battle, he could no longer deny it. 

Clutching his fur blanket about his body he sat in Charles chair, watching as the King stomped around barking orders at his generals, Prince Rupert, Earl of Forth, Lord Astley and Lord Wilmot. England rubbed at his head as they continued to converse. Dropping his head back he let his eyes slid shut for just a moment. By the Divines, he felt like shit, at least they had stopped shouting, and soldiers had stopped with their morning ruckus. Wait it was so quiet, jolting up England ogled the camp. It was practically empty. Charles had left. The troops had left. How long had he been out? Ugh. What was that awful taste in his mouth? It was like he had been sucking on a piece of metal. Stepping out from beneath the tent he blinked furiously. Why was it so bright? Everything seemed to give off a strange glow, some kind of aura. Swallowing thickly he rubbed at his eyes in the attempt to rid himself of the odd scene. And that was it.

“Look he is waking up! Hurry get his Majesty.”

“Henry?” England stared up at Wilmot, the 1st Earl of Rochester. “Why are you leaning over me?” he frowned. “Wait why am I lying down?!” it took him a moment to realize that he was lying on a cot, swaddled in blankets. He had just been outside, looking for his horse. Looking around wildly he realized that he was back in his and Charles tent.

“Arthur you’re awake.” Charles shoved open the tent flaps, rushing into the tent, relief evident on his face. “When I heard what happened I came back as soon as possible. No, don’t sit up. Wait until the medic arrives” clasping his shoulders Charles sat on a stool beside the cot. Arthur blinked, he hadn’t even noticed it.

“Medic whatever for?”

“You don’t remember anything that happened?” Charles frowned “One of the men who stayed behind said you walked out of the war tent with a look of confusion. He stated that there was a look of disgust on your face, then you collapsed. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you fell to the ground and started convulsing on the ground. He said you couldn’t talk...it was almost like…” he peered at Wilmot. “He said it was almost like a devil was trying to possess you….so we had the priest come to you...but I am not sure that a nation can be possessed.” he murmured.

“Since it has never happened in all the time I have been alive...although you said I looked confused?” lacing his fingers together he allowed his hands to rest on his belly as he looked at the ceiling of the tent. “Well, I remember that I was extremely confused. I was aware that you all had headed out to battle, but it didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.” he shook his head before falling silent in contemplation. The tent flaps opened once more, the medic rushing him. Ignoring the conversation that welled inside the tent Arthur began to work out a timeline. “It must have happened exactly in time when the battle started,” he announced. The three men in the tent fell silent.

“What do you mean?”

“I am the personification of England. This afternoon was the first pitched battle of this civil war. It established the fact that the country is split. That the country is being torn in two.” he murmured, sitting up as the medic nudged him. Pulling off his tunic he allowed the medic to examine him. Green eyes flicked over to focus on Charles. The King was sitting on his stool, hands fisted on his thighs. Anger flickered over his features, yet he made no comment. What was one actually supposed to say to that?

England, 1643  
January, 28th

“What am I to do England, France is so wishy washy with his support” Vicente muttered. The curly, brunette haired man pressed his face into his pillow with an exaggerated sigh.

“As if that is any surprise. Francis has always been a right bastard.” England commented, rolling to his side to look at the other. The personification of the Portuguese Republic had all but stormed into his castle calling for aid in his fight against Spain. That had been an amusing court. The Republic had been struggling on and off with Spain ever since their revolution from the Spanish Crown three years ago, and now the man was seeking his aid. Green eyes looked up at Arthur, creased with dissatisfaction. Before the man could continue his complaints, England held up his hand. “Now, I told you that I would help you in any way that I could spare. However, it would do you well to remember that I am in the midst of a civil war right now.” he propped himself up on his arms, rolling his eyes at the other nations exaggerated grown.

“I cannot believe that you, Scotland and Ireland are still fighting.”

“Oh, as if you can say anything!” England snorted, reaching over to tug at a wayward curl. With a coaxing finger, Vicente got to his knees, the sheets pooling around him. “Now come to me, remind me why I have agreed to help you.” England grinned, lying on his back.

“This cannot be the only reason that you have helped me, Arthur.” Vicente gave him a knowing look. “I’m not France. And the whole world knows why you keep him around.” he grinned as Arthur laughed.

“That Frog has its uses,” Arthur commented airily, running his hands over tan thighs as they settled on each side of his hips. Running his hands up and down Vicente’s legs he took note, not for the first time that the man was pleasantly sun kissed. An achievement that Arthur himself could not claim, no matter how much time he spent in the sun, even with all the sun his colonies had, all he ever did was burn. Tapping his fingers up the back of the nation's thighs Arthur ran his hands over the Portuguese's arse with a noise of appreciation. Vicente and Antonio definitely had been family at one point.

“Hey!”

“Oh! Well sorry, ma’am” Raising his hands with a look of mock offense Arthur sneered at the man atop of him.

“How am I to do anything if your hands are in the way?” Vicente responded haughtily. A comfortable silence lined with familiarity fell over the room, broken by a question “So, I heard a treaty was being discussed today. How did that go?”

“Mood killer for one,” England muttered, glaring at the man. Dropping his head back against the pillow, a noise of approval from his throat urged the man to continue his actions. “Charles met with with five commoners who were carrying terms of an agreement with them from parliament to discuss-” he grunted, grabbing the other man’s hips, rubbing circles with his thumbs. “Terms, but they couldn’t seem to agree on what they wanted. No one would give in to the others demands. It was like running in his circles.” he muttered. “But I don’t like unpleasantries in bed.” sitting up quickly he smirked in response to the others yelp of surprise. Placing his hands in the others lower back, he grinned wickedly up at the man. “So let's fix it.” 

“De boas intenções o inferno tá cheio.”

July 1, 1643  
Westminster Abbey

“If I were, to be honest, I wouldn’t bother attending,” England muttered buttoning his coat sleeves.

“If it weren’t for Alistair being there,” Vicente commented, leaning against the doorframe, a look of concern on his tan features. He had come last evening to speak with the island nation only to find the blonde leaning over his piss pot retching. The pale country had bags of purple beneath his usually bright eyes, his skin was looking sallow, and Arthur seemed to be in a state of constant exhaustion. It was a state that Vicente was all too familiar with. A Civil war had an incomparable effect on nations.

“Yes.” England nodded, stopping to look at Portugal. “I need to speak with my brother. I hope to show him the folly of his ways in siding with the Long Parliament.” 

“The Long Parliament.” the younger nations lips pursed to the right, a habit the man had when trying to remember something. “Don’t they run everything off of the denomination of...starts with a P right?”

“Puritan.” England nodded, fixing his cuffs for the final time and smoothing down his coat. “Extremists.”

“Ah yes, the ones that went over to the new world” Portugal snapped his fingers as it clicked. He straightened and turned to follow as the British Empire walked past him and out into the hall.  
“The very same,” England commented quietly. Puritans and the New World huh? What he wouldn’t give to be there now. The thought of cooking breakfast for little America with tired ocean blue eyes and hair the color of uncut wheat. But instead he was stuck here, on his way to watch his own citizens fight and his own brother to scream at him over a table, decked in formal kilt. And he would not be surprised if Seamus tagged along to glare at him from the shadows. Turning to look at the Portuguese man promenading beside him Arthur’s brows furrowed in speculation. “You are aware that you will not become with me.”

“Oh, why not?” Portugal frowned as the entered the main hall.

“Toisc go bhfuil an aon cheann de do ghnó brat.” A voice drawled, interrupting the pair. Heaving a sigh England rolled his eyes as Portugal scowled.

“Just because I don’t speak your language doesn’t mean I don’t know when you're insulting me Alistair.” Vicente smiled at the redheaded Scotsman.

“Aye, well if ye can tell that then why you still here?” Alistair stood at the top of the stone steps, just outside the castle doors.

“Fitting,” England commented dryly as they stopped a few steps away, scrutinizing the Scotsmen choice of wear. Alistair often wore a tartan, switching between the many clans of his people. It could be no accident that he had chosen today’s tartan specifically. The layout of the fabric and pattern was one that England was very familiar with. It was of the Fraser clan, one of the tribes primarily known for their patriotism and for their part in the wars of Scottish Independence. England has witnessed Alistair sitting horseback next to “The Patriot” at the battle of Battle of Roslin.

“Always little brother,” Alistair smirked before glaring at Vicente. “What you still doing here boy?”

“You-”

“Vicente.” England raised his hand for silence. Turning to look at the rebellious nation he shook his head. “I really do not have the patience for any of this. Please don’t fall for my brothers antagonizing. This is between us so I will ask that you take your leave. I will call for you once this farce has ended.” while phrasing it as a polite request no one one was fooled, England was demanding.

“Of course.” Vicente frowned. With a wish of good luck to Arthur and a half-hearted farewell to Alistair Portugal turned away, all but sulking his way down the hall. The man hated being left out of anything.

“You couldn’t have just met me there?” Arthur commented dryly, walking out the doors flanked by guards.

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Alistair shrugged as the pair descended the steps. That morning Arthur had rejected Charles insistence of a carriage ride with the king. Charles had been in a much better mood over the last couple of months since Henrietta’s return from the Netherlands. England still remembered Charles galloping his horse across the steep English cliffs, watching Henrietta’s ship sail off onto the horizon. The King had kept his horse is motion, trying to keep an eye on her ship until it was no longer visible. Charles had been miserable and irritable, impossible to console for the first month of her absence. Henrietta had returned just six months earlier, ferocious and full of righteous fire as always. Parliament warships had attacked her ships, but she was back on English soil and staying with the Earl of Newcastle at York. Charles was furious that the Parliamentary armies remained between them. Letters of the Queen’s aptitude for words and tactic arrived alongside tales of her success converting opposing generals to their cause. Because of Henrietta Charles had control of Scarborough Castle and with two defected Generals at her command now led her own army and a new title ‘Her She-Majesty, Generalissima’. Arthur found himself reminded of why the French Princess transformed into English Queen Consort, enamored him so. However, despite Charles’s relief at having his lover once more on English soil, his anger with their separation soured it. Charles could never claim to have an even temperament, and his changing moods exhausted England more than ever. He needed a moment of reprieve, and this had seemed the time to do it, a ninety-minute carriage ride from Hampton Palace to Westminster Abbey was a perfect time. Alternatively, so it had seemed.

“I was hoping to be alone,” Arthur commented, stepping up into the carriage, followed by the Scotsmen.

“And to leave to piddle-twiddle with all of the politicians. I think not.” Alistair dropped into the seat across from him, crossing his long legs. It took no time at all before the carriage lurched forward, a familiar jostle bouncing the pair along gently.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t stuck your nose where it didn’t belong then you wouldn't have to suffer hm?” Arthur looked pointedly out the window to watch the city of London roll by.

“Your Long Parliament promised that this new set of laws would better align the Church of England with the Church of Scotland in exchange for military support. What nation would be stupid enough to turn down such an offer.” Alistair snorted, crossing his arms.

“A nation who had a thought for the larger picture” Arthur retorted as he watched the sun rise over the rolling green. Charles had left an hour before the sun had even shown its face. Arthur had persuaded Charles that it was of high importance that the King be there before the assemblies sermon was to begin. William Twisse, at the nave of Westminster Abbey, was to give a sermon to start the meeting and with it being for such a related political event the house of commons would most undoubtedly be bursting at the seams. This would assure the people of Charles faith before the assembly gathered at Henry VII Chapel to begin the debates.

 

“Always the little self-righteous shit” Alistair scowled. “Your Long Parliament is aware that they will get nowhere without the manpower of my soldiers. That is why I am here. I want to watch as my people lay out the terms for our aid.” he leaned back uncomfortably against the carriages wall. The statement was met with silence, spanning a measure of time that neither man had the time to count, England being the one to break it.

“And if I asked you to not become involved. To stand back and let this argument between this group and Charles work itself out?”

“Then I would tell you that you are going to come face to face with disappointment.”

“Typical. Stubborn as a damn mule.”

“Must run in the family.”

 

August 29, 1643  
Dartmouth, England

Just a mere six days ago Scotland’s Covenanters had ratified Solemn League and Covenant and England finally relented, realizing that this was a stone rolling down such a steep hill that he could not hope to halt it. It had been the list of requirements that Scotland had mentioned in their carriage ride and that he had presented at the Westminster Assembly. England had hoped that the Parliament would reject the Scots demands, if they had then the Civil War would have been over. But the Parliament had been too clever for that and had after much debate had accepted the demands. Yet, England had watched in dismay as tensions between Long Parliament and the Assembly began and grew. Everything was becoming increasingly convoluted. 

With but a word and a hug to young Charles and Henrietta in Oxford Arthur had left for the stables, demanding horse and rations. He needed time to think, and that is how he found himself here. Dartmouth Castle, he had built it in 1388, and it had been a place of solitude since then. The castle had seen action during the one hundred years war, and now he worried that it would see battle in this civil war. The English channel was dangerous, seeing sights between him and France. He didn't have time to get on a boat, to make it down to the water. But by the gods, by God, all of them he would have its calmness, its exhilaration. Dropping his cloak into the arms of a maid he took to the halls with purpose, contorting to anxiousness. 

Running up the stairs England knocked open the door, startling the guards. With a gesture, England sent them away. Buffeting wind swept around him, lifting his hair and tugging at his clothes. Pulling himself closer to the edge. Hands, knees then feet and suddenly it was him and the sky. Lifting his arms, England felt the tilt, the wind tugging him ever so slightly. From here he could see the ocean, the boats anchored in the bay. Arthur could hear the gay cry of the sea gals. Closing his eyes he was there, the sun stroking his face, the wind in the sails rocking boat and him. The nip of salty sea spray. It was freedom. Opening his eyes green mixed with blue, lungs filling with sea air Arthur stared out across the river Dart as it spilled into the sea. Starring below him he watched the ocean curl up over the rocks caressing and stroking them in turn.

The ocean had her own soul, a soul he ached to possess. He had been born by water and when it was finally his time he wished to return to the water. It had nearly taken him before, pulling him deeply, holding him completely. "I've been standing at the edge of the water  
'Long as I can remember, never really knowing why" he whispered, whirling round the temptation welled once more in his belly. How easy would it be to let go and fall, would he miss the rocks and embrace the water? The water that he loved, the water he was afraid of? With a single step, he dropped the foot back to the floor.

“Lord Kirkland!” a shout echoed up from the stairway and England gave it a look of disdain. Casting a look over his shoulder, he once more considered the drop over the edge. The sound of his name echoed again, and he felt the weight of his responsibilities upon his shoulders once more. This war was but a year and a half in, and it showed no signs of slowing.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Northern ireland and the republic of Ireland did not form until the 1990's I will be using one Ireland for this fic
> 
> I have also fudged dear Henriettas time line a bit. I have no clue when she actually returned from Holland but I wanted her there for a brief time
> 
>  
> 
> ***Bruce, John. Letters of King Charles the First to Queen Henrietta Maria. Camden Society, 1856, Pg. 7  
> The quote that Henrietta read from the note Charles I had sent her


End file.
